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I.
Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,

And waste my soul with care ;
But ah! how bootless to admire,

When fated to despair !

II.
Yet in thy presence, lovely fair,

To hope may be forgiven;
For sure 'twere impious to despair

So much in sight of heaven.

SONG XII.

HERE AWA' THERE AWA'.

AIR.-HERE AWA' THERE AWA'.

I.
Here awa', there awa', wandering Willie,
Here awa', there awa', haud awa' hame;
Come to my bosom, my ain only deary,
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.

II. Winter winds blew, loud and cauld, at our parting, Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e; Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie; The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.

III. Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers, How

your dread howling a lover alarms! Wauken, ye breezes ! row gently, ye billows ! And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.

But oh, if he 's faithless, and minds na his Nanie,
Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main :
May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain!

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SONG

XIII.

BRAW LADS ON YARROW BRAES.

AIR.-GALLA WATER.

I.

Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,

Ye wander thro' the blooming heather ;
But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws,
Can match the lads o' Galla water.

II.
But there is ane, a secret ane,

Aboon them a' I loo him better ;
And I'll be his, and he'll be mine,
The bonnie lad o' Galla water.

III.
Altho' his daddie was nae laird,

And tho' I hae na meikle tocher,
Yet rich in kindest, truest love,
We'll tent our flocks by Galla water.

IV.
It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth,

That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ; The bands and bliss o' mutual love,

O that's the chiefest warld's treasure !

SONG XIV.

THERE'S AULD ROB MORRIS,

AIR.--AULD ROB MORRIS.

I. There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king of gude fellows, and wale of auld men; He has gowd in his coffers, he has sheep, he has kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

II.
She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May,
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

III. But oh, she's an heiress, auld Robin 's a laird, And my daddie has nought but acot-house and yard: A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed; The wounds I maun hide which will soon be my dead.

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